


Sinfully Sweet (The Brownies Story)

by orphan_account



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Baking, Everyone is of age, First Time, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Making Out, Mutual Masturbation, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-22 00:14:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7410817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>College student Eames delivers some homemade brownies on a rainy evening to his favorite professor, Arthur, hoping to attract his attention. When his car breaks down outside Arthur’s place, he really has no choice but to ask to spend the night. </p>
<p>This prompt was given to me by my best friend, and, as ridiculous and sappy as it seems, it is faithfully based on a true story. I chose to make it gayer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sinfully Sweet (The Brownies Story)

Eames pulled the tray from the shoddy little oven in his dorm’s kitchen, wincing as his thumb burned a little from where there was only one thin layer of tea towel between his skin and the baking pan. He should really buy some proper oven mitts, but he probably couldn’t afford them now, seeing as he’d just spent about twenty-five dollars on premium dark chocolate alone. Brownies weren’t really worth it if the chocolate was substandard, he thought. He knew that what passed for normal chocolate in American shops was nearly inedible, so he’d had to shell out for the good stuff. Whatever. He could just eat ramen noodles for the next few weeks, right?

The whole operation would have been much cheaper if he’d managed to bake them right the first time. He had used his roommate’s round pan, which turned out to be a mistake. The center of the brownies was still goop even after the edges had started to burn. Then he had located a rectangular one from a girl downstairs, luckily still in her dorm room, who said she’d been using it as a palette. He’d almost admired her resourcefulness until he’d realized he would have to scrub the paint smudges out of it. It took ages, but he got the damn thing clean. He strongly suspected his hands would smell of citrus fairy liquid for weeks to come.

The brownies were better, that time, but they’d seemed to bake unevenly. The right side was moist but the left was overdone, dry and crumbly. At that rate, he’d thought he would be eating botched brownie attempts until January.

Luckily, the third time was the charm. He had rotated the pan in the oven, and they felt perfect all the way through: dense, soft, and rich. He left the pan to cool while he went to shower, and then he cut them into neat little squares before having a quick nap.

Eames woke up feeling refreshed. He put on a pair of trousers and a dark green shirt, ran his fingers through his hair a few times, and grabbed his car keys and the plastic container full of brownies before bounding down the stairs and out the door.

Rain had started to fall. He slid into the driver’s seat of the car, an old, beat-up Honda with about 300,000 miles on it that they’d bought at the start of the year, and tried to figure out how to turn on the windshield wipers. It wasn’t that it absolutely _never_ rained there; it had a few times already this December (albeit very lightly), but as finals had approached, he hadn’t taken the car out much himself. His roommate typically drove the two of them to campus, and they spent the frantic weeks before and of final exams studying, not gallivanting about town.

But now that finals were over and grades were in, Eames had turned his attention to other matters. Namely, Arthur. Professor, he reminded himself. _Professor_. Adoring someone and attending their office hours religiously didn’t mean you could refer to them by their first name, even though you’d pestered them into learning yours.

His heart started to pound nervously as he neared Arthur’s condo. He parked on the street, turned off the engine, and tried to calm himself. Finding out where Arthur lived had proved to be surprisingly easy. Eames had always been pretty close and chatty with his architectural drawing professor, Ariadne. She was fairly keen to talk to students as she was young herself. Eames wouldn’t be surprised if she had been some sort of child prodigy, tenured at age seventeen or something ridiculous like that. She had mentioned a little soirée she’d been to with some of the other professors who were on the outreach committee. She said it had been at Arthur’s place, grumbling that it was the least convenient for nearly everyone else, as he didn’t live in the housing neighborhood provided by the university. Eames had only needed to simply wonder aloud about why for Ariadne to started telling him about this _fantastic_ place that Arthur had found a few years after he had moved to the city. Eames quickly slipped into memorization mode as she rattled off its virtues and amenities, and after a bit of internet digging, he’d figured out which building Arthur lived in. It was pretty nice, from the outside. It had maybe four floors and was in a quiet residential neighborhood, mostly surrounded by other apartment-type complexes.

Eames took a deep breath, grabbed the container, and walked up to the front door. He found Arthur’s name on the buzzer list next to the number three. That was the only real bit of luck involved in the plan, although since Arthur wasn’t actually famous or anything, he had hoped that he wouldn’t be so privacy obsessed as to redact his name from the list. He thought about it for a moment. Hopefully he was the only student who was semi-stalking Arthur. He didn’t want to be just another in a long list of silly, idealistic boys who had taken a shining to a handsome, inspirational literature professor.

Eames tried the big entrance door to the lobby and slipped inside. He climbed the two flights of stairs nervously, located Arthur’s door, and then gently laid the brownies down in front of it, complete with its handwritten note (simply signed as _Eames_ , with his mobile number scrawled below – not inappropriate, now that the class was over; he could finally make his intentions a bit clearer). He stood for a moment by the door until he heard a bit of a rustling inside, so he scampered off and left the building.

Eames darted back from the front of the building to his car. It was raining a bit harder, now. He slipped into the driver’s seat and put the key in the ignition, but the engine didn’t turn over. He frowned and tried again. Nothing.

_This can’t be happening._

Eames leaned back, letting his head smack against the seat. He tried to calm his thinking. He was kicking himself a little for not asking more questions whenever his roommate rattled on about the car’s various problems. He tried a few more times, but to no avail.

Eames grabbed his phone. Predictably, he had no signal. He could try wandering around the neighborhood until his reception was better, but he hadn’t thought to bring a coat with him, and the rain was thumping down now. He reclined his seat a little and rested his eyes for a while, considering his options.

The street was deserted, too, he noticed eventually. Peculiar, really. It was as if almost everyone had left town, just like the diaspora that had emptied his dorm for the holidays, and he was alone in this big, abandoned space. But he knew one person here. He knew Arthur, and it was like the storm had just whisked everyone else away, narrowing the day down to the two of them and forcing them together. He decided to go back upstairs.

He flicked the wet strands of hair out of his face as he got into the elevator – Eames didn’t want to be out of breath from running up the stairs if Arthur was going to see him this time. When he returned to Arthur’s doorstep, the brownies were gone. It couldn’t have been more than fifteen minutes, twenty at the absolute most, but Arthur must have found them already. He panicked for a moment that Arthur had left (if so, then Eames was really screwed), but surely he would have noticed Arthur coming out of the front door, right? There was no point in second guessing himself, really. And at least now his presence (and his knowledge of Arthur’s home address) couldn’t be completely unexpected, provided Arthur had seen the note.

Maybe he should go for confidence. He didn’t want to seem helpless in front of Arthur, like a stupid kid with a crush who has car troubles because they simply can’t take care of themselves without grown-up supervision. Maybe, if he played his role with enough bravado, he could make it seem like the engine failure was a thinly veiled excuse just to get himself inside Arthur’s door. He’d rather Arthur thought of him as audacious, forward, a little lascivious, even, than as childish or pitiful. And, just maybe, Arthur would play along.

Eames stepped up to the door and knocked, firmly, four raps of his knuckles.

Arthur answered. “Eames.”

Eames didn’t have much time to revel in the sound of Arthur enunciating his name, because he could feel his face flush as he looked at him. Arthur on vacation from work was still delightfully formal. His hair wasn’t slicked back like it always was during class, though; he had no tie anchoring the white shirt under his grey jumper; his sleeves were rolled up, revealing lovely forearms; and he was barefoot, his black trousers uncuffed and a little too long. Eames immediately became very conscious of how conspicuously he had been checking Arthur out, so he met Arthur’s eyes.

“Hi,” said Eames, grinning widely. “My car broke down.”

Arthur stared at him for a while. “Is that so?” His voice was rich and low, always deeper than Eames remembered it in his head. He cocked both his eyebrows up to Eames’s hairline once he noticed that the loose strands at the front were dripping onto his doormat. He threw a quick glance towards the window, checking the weather. “Come on in, then, Eames.”

“Cheers, Arthur,” Eames responded, testing their familiarity. The way Arthur was looking at him sent a shiver down his spine. _This was good. No lecture about professionalism or appropriate behavior. And perhaps that look in Arthur’s eyes was intrigue, not mere surprise. Maybe Arthur could really want him here._

He beamed as he took a look around Arthur’s living room – sleek, mostly gray with accent hints of lilac – and then walked over to the open kitchen area. On the raised countertop sat the container of brownies. He looked back to Arthur.

“I haven’t tried one yet. Saving them for after dinner,” Arthur explained.

Sometimes, when he was interacting with Arthur, it was as if Eames wasn’t thinking. His filters would all disappear, and he would just say everything and do anything he thought, and what he thought was usually a little too brazen to be appropriate. He just couldn’t help himself. The exhilaration of the moment always conquered over his better judgment.

Eames opened the container, broke off a small piece, and placed it between his front teeth. His eyelashes fluttered a little as the deep, dark chocolate flavor hit his tongue.

He stepped in towards Arthur, close enough to feel his breath on his skin. “Are you afraid you’ll spoil your appetite?” He darted his tongue out, then, to sweep up any remaining crumbs on his lips. When he finished licking them clean, he looked him dead in the eye. “You should indulge a little, Arthur.”

And then, after his words hung in the air for an agonizing, nerve-wracking moment, Arthur leaned forward and kissed him.

His lips were rough and forceful, but then his tongue probed forward, licking softly. Eames melted a tiny bit before starting to kiss him back. He decided to push forward more, gently carding his fingers through the hair on the back of Arthur’s head. It was softer than he had imagined it to be, not thick and crisp with gel today. He emitted a soft, tiny gasp when Arthur bit down lightly on his lower lip, caressing it gently after.

Arthur placed a hand on Eames’s shoulder, pressing as if to guide him. Eames kicked off his shoes first, then relaxed his muscles and allowed Arthur, now just a little taller than him, to walk him backwards over to the couch. Eames landed on his back. The couch was nice, wide and comfortable, and Eames stroked the velvety material under his fingertips as he looked up at Arthur.

Arthur climbed onto the couch and crawled on his hands and knees over a squirming Eames until they were face to face. He leant down, careful not to rest his weight on Eames, and pressed some soft kisses to his jawline, nipping a bit near his ears. He stopped for a beat, sat up, and pulled his jumper over his head, tossing it carelessly onto the coffee table. It was then that Eames noticed that the first couple of buttons were undone on Arthur’s shirt. His exposed throat and collarbone looked divine, and Eames craned his neck upwards to kiss Arthur’s neck. He made a wonderful, shivery little noise when Eames applied just the right amount of suction.

Eventually, Arthur dropped a little to place his weight on his right forearm, while his left hand explored Eames’s side with ghosting little touches. The air between them was frustrating, and Eames pushed his hips forward and up just a little, looking for some friction or at least the pressure of Arthur’s body resting against him. Arthur smirked a tiny bit before attacking his mouth.

But, when Eames tugged Arthur’s shirt out of his trousers and began to stroke the sensitive skin around his stomach, Arthur stopped suddenly. He bolted upright, jumping off of the sofa, and turned around to face away from Eames, resting his forehead in his left hand.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice a little hoarse. “I’m so sorry; I can’t believe myself.”

“Arthur, don’t panic,” Eames nearly shouted, obviously panicking. “It’s okay; you’re not doing anything wrong, I swear – ”

“No, Eames, I’m sorry,” said Arthur, who was now walking away towards the kitchen area. “It’s so improper. I just, I’ve never done something like this before – I mean, you surely spent all day making these, Eames, and I haven’t even tried them. I promise, I’m not usually so rude.”

Eames sat up, turned, and saw Arthur holding one of brownies in front of his devilish smile, eying it with want and desire. Eames gaped a little. “You’re incorrigible, you know that, _professor?_ ”

“You’re the one who wanted to play games, Eames. Your car broke down? How surprising to hear a student who produced such refreshingly inspired essays use the most hackneyed excuse in the book.”

“It’s the truth!” Eames started to get up, until Arthur turned to him.

“Stay where you are, Eames. Lie down.”

Eames complied, huffing a little in impatience. Arthur walked over to the couch to watch him as he ate, and Eames propped his head up on his right arm to gaze up at him. Arthur savored the square in tiny little bites and made exaggerated pleased humming noises. Finally, he polished the damn thing off. “Eames, I am impressed,” he said, obscenely licking the last few morsels off of his fingers.

Eames took a deep breath. “Fuck you, Arthur.”

“No, truly a fine effort, Eames, really. Not perfect, of course. I always do like to inspire a bit of keenness, keep you trying to improve,” he smirked.

“Oh my god.”

“Tell me what you want, Eames. Be direct this time.”

“I want you, Arthur. Now. Get over here.”

“As you wish,” Arthur said, his voice a bit husky and deep, and then he crawled back on top of Eames. He looked up at Arthur for a moment, his hair tousled and lovely, looking like his lifelong wet dream, and they began to move a little, grinding their hips together as they kissed.

After a little while, Arthur’s hand found Eames’s belt buckle, and he looked up at Eames, his brows raised inquisitively.

“Yeah, yes, please,” Eames rasped out, not quite believing what was happening. Arthur unclasped the belt, unbuttoned and unzipped his trousers, and began to palm him through his boxers. Eames bucked up into it, his arousal heady, and made a needy little noise as Arthur dipped inside his pants and started to stroke him more rhythmically. The sensations were overwhelming, and Eames let himself relax into them.

Then, Arthur picked up Eames’s hand and guided it to the front of his own slacks. Eames made quick work of revealing Arthur’s skin, tentatively wrapping a hand around his cock, and slicking it a bit with Arthur’s wetness. He stroked up and down carefully and then flicked his thumb around the head of it. The motion elicited a lovely moan from Arthur, whose hand stilled slightly on Eames as his eyes closed for a moment in pleasure. Eames focused his technique on teasing Arthur just there, but he began to find it difficult to concentrate when Arthur started adding a flick of his wrist to the end of each stroke.

Arthur returned to kissing his neck as he worked him, and it wasn’t long until Eames started to feel close. If his heavy pants were any indication, Arthur wasn’t far behind him. Eames leaned forward to whisper to him. “I’m close, Arthur, please.” Arthur quickened his motions, and Eames started to babble a little.

“Yes, a little bit more just there, yes, there, yes, _yes,_ _fuck, Arthur_ ,” Eames groaned. When he moaned and arched backwards, Arthur kissed him, and Eames rode out his orgasm with his left hand tangled in Arthur’s hair, holding him in close. While he calmed down, he continued to pull lazily at Arthur’s length, eventually regaining his wherewithal and focusing on making Arthur feel good. As Arthur got closer, he began to thrust into Eames’s hand, while Eames’s thumb swirled around his tip, stroking him where he was the most sensitive. He made a beautiful, choked little noise as he came. Eames did his best to commit the look of rapture on Arthur’s face to memory, in case he never saw it again.

Arthur collapsed on top of him and grinned, his dimples deep and endearing, before giving Eames a quick peck.

“We should get cleaned up,” he said, hauling himself up. “Stay here.”

“Arthur. Indulge. Let a bit of mess into your life, just for a few minutes while we rest, yeah?”

Arthur paused for a moment, but then shook his head, responding, “It’s an expensive couch.” When he came back, damp washcloth in hand, Eames let him clean him up, and then, satisfied with the state of things, he curled up next to Eames and let himself relax.

When Eames next stirred, morning light poured through the window and illuminated Arthur’s face, sweet and calm in sleep. He smiled at the feeling of Arthur’s arm flung possessively over his shoulder, but then started a little with a thought. What if Arthur hadn’t really meant for him to stay the night? It’s not as if he had invited him to; Eames had just fallen asleep right there on his couch. He tried to stay perfectly still, his mind aflutter with worry, until Arthur woke up.

“Morning,” he drawled, staring at Eames until his eyes focused and moving to stretch a bit. “Fuck, we should have moved to the bed before collapsing; I feel stiff.”

_Okay, that panic was short lived, thank goodness._ Eames smiled back at Arthur and, remembering how Arthur had reacted to his suggestiveness before, looked him up and down. “Sure I can’t kiss you better?”

“I seemed to have missed dinner last night, so I think breakfast might be a priority for me,” said Arthur. “Do you want some before you drive home?”

“Arthur,” Eames responded, his cadence measured. “My car is broken down.”

“Uhuh,” Arthur laughed as he got up. “Sure, stick with your story, Eames.”

Eames looked off in contemplation for a moment, sitting up a bit. “Okay, I have a proposition. Since you proved yourself last night to be so _very_ talented with your hands, you can go outside and have a crack at fixing my car. Meanwhile, I will make us both some breakfast.”

“Don't think you can make much of anything good in the minute or so it’ll take for me to put the key in the ignition and turn it, Eames. You’ll have to incentivize this. What do I get if I’m right?” Arthur teased.

Eames grinned salaciously. “Arthur, I wouldn’t want to ruin that surprise,” he said, darting his tongue out between his teeth for a moment for emphasis. He dug into the pocket of his trousers and tossed the keys at him.

“Okay. See you soon.”

After Arthur left, Eames explored his kitchen. It was pretty well stocked and, unsurprisingly, impeccably well organized. Soon, Eames had assembled all the ingredients he remembered he’d need for crêpes and set about mixing up the batter. By the time he heard Arthur coming back up the stairs, Eames had finally plated some nice, circular crêpes (he’d eaten the first few woefully misshapen attempts just to hide the evidence).

“And?” Eames asked, casting a curious glance at Arthur.

“It won’t start. I checked the windshield wipers and the lights; neither worked – your battery’s dead.”

“So I was right?”

Arthur paused for a moment before clearly abandoning his pride. “Yes.”

“And what do I win?” Eames squeezed some lemon juice on the crêpes and pushed the plate towards Arthur, who started eating.

“I’ll use my car’s battery to jump yours,” said Arthur. “And the next time you want to see me, maybe on Friday night – we’ll do dinner for real this time – you can drop the pretense and just call me.” He grabbed a pen from the nearby counter, turned over his napkin, and wrote his number down.

“Sure thing, _professor_ ,” Eames answered, grabbing at the digits.

“Don’t call me that. If you find yourself incapable, then just be quiet until you can manage it.”

“Okay,” Eames said. He pressed his lips to Arthur’s to end the conversation.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Any comments, including constructive criticism, would be much appreciated.


End file.
